Heading to a children’s writing conference over spring break, I had just one prayer: “Lord, help me to make one important connection this weekend.”

From childhood, I’ve loved children’s books. And as I’d spent much of the last two decades sitting on the couch reading them to my own children, writing them seemed like the natural progression.

Writing books and getting them published, however, are two completely different things. As author Jane Yolen, the grand lady of children’s writing, said at this year’s gathering of the New England Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, “Writing is an art. Publishing is a business.” My “art,” a middle-grade novel I’d begun a dozen years ago, had yet to interest a buyer.

And so, wanting a break from driving and some time together, my 15-year-old daughter, Lydia, and I boarded a bus to Springfield, Mass., for the region’s biggest children’s writing conference. Lydia with a sketchbook and colored pencils. Me with a one-page description of my novel, hoping that the connection I’d make would be with an editor. The conference was lively, and I jumped right in with a workshop on writing picture books. But there were so many people, it was hard to connect with more than a brief greeting and a smile. The first night, between sessions, Lydia and I headed outside in search of dinner. We wandered down an empty side street, hoping to find a good sandwich shop or pizza, and that’s when I saw him – a homeless man, shuffling up the street in our direction.

I’m embarrassed to admit that he made me nervous. It wasn’t the color of his skin. Or that he was walking in a jerky, crooked gait. It was that we were alone, and that after passing us, he turned around and began following us from behind. “Just keep walking,” I told Lydia. “We’ll duck into the next doorway.”

But before we could step inside, there he was, pointing up the street to a fried chicken joint we might enjoy, or barbecued ribs. Then he pulled a plastic ID out of his pocket. “I’m a veteran.” He smiled, showing us his picture. “Is there anything you can do for me?”

I didn’t know his story. Didn’t know his struggles. Was he an addict? An alcoholic? Would he use the money to feed his addiction? “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really can’t. But thank you for your service and your sacrifice. I will pray for you.”

It sounded so incredibly lame. Then I led Lydia into the doorway of the restaurant, and he was gone. Or so I thought. The next afternoon, Lydia and I packed up to head home. Yet again, I hadn’t been able to interest an editor in my book. So much for that divine, prayed-for connection. As Lydia and I stepped out of the hotel, however, there was the veteran, walking down the sidewalk. “Hello!” he waved. “Good to see you again.”

And we smiled and waved back, no longer nervous, but still feeling uncomfortable about my inability to help. An hour later, Lydia and I sat at the bus station. Our ride was delayed, and then, just as we were about to board, there came the veteran again, walking by our line. “My old friends!” He grinned. This time I genuinely laughed, smiling as if we were indeed old friends.

“I want you to know.” I looked into his eyes. “I really did pray for you last night. I don’t know what challenges you are facing, but I prayed that you will find the help you need. Do you go to church?”

“Church?” His face lit up. “Oh, yeah, I love church.” He named several. Then he said, “Let’s pray right now.”

So I took his hands, warm and strong. And he took mine. And right there, standing in the Peter Pan bus line, we bowed our heads together. First I prayed for him, asking that God would bless him and protect him, and be with him on his journey. And then he prayed a blessing over me. That evening, as the sun set and our bus rattled toward home, I was disappointed that God hadn’t answered my prayer. I hadn’t made a single important connection at the conference. Then a picture of this veteran came to mind. Oh, I thought. Oh. And I got it. Who we rank as important and who God ranks as important are often two completely different things. Like writing and publishing, art and business. I still wish I’d been able to do more to help this man, but I was grateful for the connection we’d shared.

Meadow Rue Merrill, the Christopher-Award winning author of “Redeeming Ruth: Everything Life Takes, Love Restores,” writes for children and adults from a little house in the big woods of midcoast Maine. Her children’s picture-book series, “Lantern Hill Farm,” releases this fall. Connect at:

www.meadowrue.com